The Tournament at Gorlan by John A. Flanagan

voice. “He’s doing no harm.”
    Almost immediately, one of the soldiers stepped forward, his sword sliding free of its scabbard with a ringing hiss. He leveled the point at the speaker’s throat.
    â€œD’you want to argue with the Ranger, you scum?” he demanded.
    The man, an unarmed farmworker, shrank back, dropping his eyes. “No, sir. Not me,” he said, fear all too evident in his voice.
    â€œThen hold your tongue or I’ll cut it out for you!” the soldier threatened.
    The singer placed his gitarra carefully on the table behind him, out of possible harm’s way. He was wearing a double scabbard at his belt, and the hilts of a saxe knife and a throwing knife were visible. However, he made no attempt to reach for either of them. The pompous, overblown fool in the green cape didn’t concern him. But the four soldiers were armed and ready for trouble. In fact, he sensed, they would welcome it, and he didn’t want to give them any excuse to start what would be a very one-sided fight. If that happened, some of the villagers might try to take a hand on his side and they might be hurt. He didn’t want that on his conscience.
    â€œThere’s no need to threaten Isaac,” he said calmly. The soldier glared at him and he returned the angry look steadily, until the man-at-arms muttered a low curse and re-sheathed his sword. Only then did the former Ranger of Weslon address hisreplacement.
    â€œI’m doing no harm here, Willet,” he said in a reasonable tone. “I’m just trying to earn a few coins to pay for my dinner. Surely I can do that?”
    â€œSurely you can’t!” the man named Willet replied. “You’ve been dismissed from the Ranger Corps. And you’ve been singing insulting songs about the King! We don’t want your kind here in Weslon Fief!”
    Berrigan shrugged. “I was under the impression that the people here were enjoying my music. And I certainly don’t recall singing any disloyal song about the King.”
    â€œYou sang about how the King has constant trouble with wind!” Willet shrilled and Berrigan couldn’t help smiling.
    â€œI assume you’re referring to ‘Good King Artur, the Terrible Farter’?”
    The new Ranger nodded several times. “Exactly! It’s insulting and disloyal. It could even be construed to be treasonous!”
    Berrigan shrugged. “But as the title says, the King’s name is Artur. He’s not our King. It’s just a silly doggerel song.”
    â€œThat’s where you’re so clever! You pretend it’s about another king. But I know you’re referring to our King, and encouraging people to laugh at him!”
    The former Ranger shook his head. “Not so. I’ve been singing that song for years.”
    â€œSo,” Willet crowed triumphantly, “you admit to the crime! And you admit to having committed it repeatedly!”
    Berrigan sighed. He looked sadly at his replacement. “Willet, do you sit awake at night thinking up stupid things to say? Or does it just come naturally to you—on the spur of the moment?”
    A couple of the watching villagers laughed. The men-at-arms swung round angrily, trying to see who was responsible. But the villagers had quickly composed their features. Willet glared at Berrigan for a few moments, his mouth working silently. The former Ranger watched him carefully. He sensed he may have pushed the ridiculous little man too far. Finally, Willet got control of himself. He thrust out his right arm, the forefinger pointing at the gitarra lying on the table.
    â€œConfiscate that instrument, Corporal!” he snapped. “Smash it!”
    As the leader of the small squad started toward the table, Berrigan stepped to block his way. And now his hand dropped to the hilt of the saxe at his waist.
    â€œI don’t think so,” he said. His voice was low but there was an